With the Fire in Your Eyes
by Little Lushy Lion
Summary: "Every second that ticks past leaves her blood stream coated with another layer of poison, evident in the pale hue of her skin and the way her eyelids flutter, like a great chunk of lead is forcing them down and Clara is only fighting it by sheer force of will. Strong to the last, that one." Inspired by a prompt by doctorandtheimpossiblegirl on tumblr. One-shot.


**Author's Note:** This was inspired by a prompt posted on tumblr by _doctorandtheimpossiblegirl. _The prompt was:

Clara is dying, and the Doctor can save her, but she has to stay conscious. He kisses her to surprise her and keep her awake, and after she's saved, she returns the kiss properly.

So, as you can guess, this boils down to unadulterated fluff. Enjoy and review if you please. :)

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"No, no, no," the Doctor mumbles, scanning Clara's body with his sonic screwdriver for the fifth time in the span of only a minute or two. Every second that ticks past leaves her blood stream coated with another layer of poison, evident in the pale hue of her skin and the way her eyelids flutter, like a great chunk of lead is forcing them down and Clara is only fighting it by sheer force of will. Strong to the last, that one.

Scooping her up in his arms, the Doctor marches towards the TARDIS. His determined gait must alert the ship to the dire status of this situation, because she opens her doors automatically and without protest - a rare feat for the ship, in terms of Clara.

"Thank you, thank you," he manages to whisper. Belatedly, he realizes there isn't enough time to race to the sick bay with Clara still in his arms. Though she doesn't weigh much, the burden is enough to slow him down considerably. To make matters worse, her eyelids have stopped fluttering altogether, and the only way to even tell that she's awake is by the slight curling and uncurling of the digits on her right hand - as if she's teetering on the edge of consciousness and literally clinging to a nearby precipice.

Glancing worriedly at the entrance to the corridors of the TARDIS, the Doctor settles her on the floor near the console. He then places his palm above Clara's ear, his fingers reaching her hairline and his thumb at her forehead. The touch is all too familiar; nausea billows up his innards, nearly immobilizing him.

"Stay awake, Clara," he orders, but the authority in his voice is belied by a tremor. "Hold on," he continues, now bounding away from her and down the corridors. His legs (in this body, anyway) are deceitfully strong, sinewy muscles capable of propelling him in dangerous and panicked situations alike.

It only takes a moment or two for the Doctor to reach the sick bay, another moment to find an antidote safe for human consumption, and then one last moment to race back to the console room. The whole expedition is three moments too long, because when he returns Clara's head is lulled at an awkward angle, her hand no longer twitching and her skin now positively ghostly in pallor. Maybe he could recognize the irony if it were another time, but for now it just feels as if his hearts are ready to break his ribcage.

"No," he chokes, kneeling down beside her and feeling her neck for a pulse. A dull thud meets his fingers, and a sense of renewed determination shoots down his spine.

"I'm not losing you again, Clara," he promises, though saying it aloud is more for his benefit than hers.

He's about to funnel the antidote (it's a bloody pill, of all things) down her throat when he's faced with the basic truth that she can't swallow it unless she's slightly conscious. Now fueled by a fresh prick of panic, the Doctor swats at her cheeks in a vain attempt to wake her.

"Clara!" he exclaims, mouth near her ear. Nothing.

He flounders then, uncharacteristically at a loss. His mind is always mapping out alternatives, calculating and formulating and yet, at this very moment, he can barely even _think_. It figures Clara would have that effect on him even when she's dying. (Again. He can't let himself forget how many times he's failed her now.)

"Think, think, think," he chants, smacking the heel of his palm to his forehead in a frenzy. "Surprise, that's it!" he suddenly blurts out, eyes wide as everything finally clicks into place.

He feels for her pulse again, delighted to find it exactly as it was. No stronger, sure, but no weaker either. He doesn't waste a moment longer before placing one hand on each of her cheeks, pulling her towards him and pressing his lips against hers in a bruising kiss. She gasps against his mouth, one hand jumping to grasp at the pocket of his coat. He retreats then, satisfaction and exhilaration turning the corners of his mouth upwards. Reaching for the pill in his pocket, he pops it into her mouth before instructing, "Swallow. Now."

If she were in any kind of normal condition, Clara would probably smirk and tease him about his word choice or his tone or his impatience. As it is, one eyebrow simply quirks while she obeys.

The change is instantaneous, her cheeks flooding with crimson as her eyes widen impossibly. Her muscles tighten in attention as well, her hands curling into fists.

"You're alive!" the Doctor enthuses, cupping her cheeks again and planting a sloppy kiss on her forehead.

"You sound surprised," Clara quips, lips tilted in a half smile.

"I am! Not that I thought you were going to die, or anything," he rushes to explain, eyes wide, "I was just doubtful for a moment there. Just a split second of time, really. Completely inconsequential in the grand scheme of things."

The longer he rambles, the larger Clara's smile grows. She now closely resembles a feline with its claws tightly trapping a small canary. The Doctor stops short and gulps.

"And the snog? That was to save my life, was it?" she presses.

The Doctor slicks his hair back nervously. "Yes, of course. The element of surprise. Tactically genius, especially during wars. Though I suppose this wasn't a war."

"Doctor?" Clara interrupts. Her eyebrows are high on her forehead.

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

The Doctor stops fidgeting at that, an elated smile spreading along his lips.

"But don't ever kiss me again while I'm unconscious. A bit too keen, don't you think?" she grins, and all of the color drains from his face.

He means to apologize (or maybe insist that he is _not_ too keen - he is just the right amount of keen, which is not keen at all, really), but Clara grips the lapels of his jacket and pulls him towards her.

"Of course, I'm no longer unconscious," she mumbles, right before her lips meet his again.

(He doesn't flail this time. Not the whole time, at least.)


End file.
